


Intended

by Maplesyrup



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Aristocracy, Avonlea - Freeform, Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold Smut, Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold in the Dark Castle, Dark One Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, F/M, Imp Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Kings & Queens, Rumbelle - Freeform, The Dark Castle (Once Upon a Time), The Dark One (Once Upon a Time), The Marchlands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:41:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28267041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maplesyrup/pseuds/Maplesyrup
Summary: With the need for a marriage alliance bearing down on her, Belle makes an unexpected--and potentially dangerous--choice.Rated E for smut in later chaptersNominated for BEST AU in the 2021 TEAs
Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Comments: 182
Kudos: 139





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> My eternal love and thanks to Mareyshelley and Nerdrumple, for without them this would never have been made <3

_The Marchlands, long ago..._  
  


“My dear Princess, it’s quite simple.” 

A grin split his face, dappled forest sunlight playing across his scaled, shimmering skin as he slinked closer to his captive. 

“Solve the riddle, gain your freedom.”

The princess rolled her eyes, tugging at the bonds anchoring her to the wide oak tree and letting out a groan of frustration.

“You are being purposefully obtuse. And as you are well aware, it is notoriously bad form to kidnap a princess while she is merely out for a morning stroll.”

He gasped, pressing a hand to his chest theatrically. 

“Such large words for such a small thing as yourself.” He slid closer, his voice a near whisper. “It’s also notoriously bad form to traipse through the woods unchaperoned. Why, all manner of beastly things might accost you on your journey.” He pulled back. “I’m doing you a favor.”

“A favor?” She scoffed. “You do no such thing without gaining something in return.”

A glint entered his eye. “Aye, Princess. Hence the riddle.”

She tugged once more against the bonds.

“The more you struggle, the more the rope tears your pretty dress, Princess.”

She tossed her head in defiance, her silken brown curls tumbling over her shoulder. 

“What care I for my dress? My kingdom is currently missing its princess, my parents their daughter, all because an upstart pixie grew bored and decided to bother the humans.” She smirked at him. “He forgets his place among the kingdom’s subjects.”

He closed the distance between them swiftly, grasping her chin with firm, warm fingers and thrusting her face up to meet his.

“I am neither _pixie_ ,” he spat, “nor your kingdom’s _subject_. I am the Dark One. A fact you would do well to remember.”

She narrowed her bright blue eyes at him, smirking still against the pressure of his fingers. 

“The Dark One doesn’t have anything better to do than steal princesses?” She laughed. “Why _did_ you steal me, then? For what purpose? Is there no lady-fae fit for your amusement? Fit to be your prize?”

His grip loosened, his warm hand sliding from her jaw down her neck, a long finger tracing the edge of lace topping her straining bodice. His peculiar eyes followed his hand, a trickling warmth filling her chest and sliding lower as a feather-light touch brushed the soft valley between her breasts.

“Enough,” he growled after a long moment. “Solve my riddle or perish in the forest.”

She stared at him, rebellion in her eyes despite the strange feeling swimming through her veins.

“Perish.” She snorted lightly. “How dramatic. I fear no danger from you, _Dark One_.”

His hand fluttered around her neck as if he couldn’t quite decide whether to strangle her or caress her. She tilted her head back, a reckless bravery making her daring as she exposed her throat to him. 

“Repeat the riddle to me.”

He spoke, his voice harsh and impatient, an edge of desperation crowding the words.

_“I am just two and two; I am hot, I am cold.  
_ _I'm the parent of numbers that cannot be told._  
_I'm a gift beyond measure, a matter of course;  
_ _I'm yielded with pleasure when void of force.”_

She grinned, her eyes flicking to his lips, her tongue darting out to wet her own.

“I know the answer.”

The bonds holding her to the tree suddenly released themselves and she fell forward. He caught her, strong arms going around her middle, and she gazed up at him.

“Well then, Princess,” he said, the impish titter gone from his voice, replaced with something deeper, “what say you?”

She shook her head. 

“I shall say nothing, Dark One,” she murmured, stretching up onto her toes, “but yet speak volumes with one action.”

She pressed her lips to his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come ;)


	2. The Private Office

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mareyshelley and Nerdrumple save me from myself.

_The Kingdom of Avonlea, several years later  
  
  
_ The black silk of her gown rustled as Belle fidgeted in her seat. No matter how she tried, the chair was too large for her, having been specially sized to fit the kings of her family, rather than a queen; her father, his father before him, and his father before that. After the coronation, she would see to having a more suitable chair made for her purposes.

Her chief royal advisor, His Grace the Duke of the High Isles, Frederick Bellamy, slid a sheaf of papers towards her as he rifled through another with his free hand.

“I’d imagine you’d want to separate the Hightower family from the East Anglians at the coronation, Your Majesty.”

She nodded with a sigh, picking up the sheaf. 

“Yes. It wouldn’t do to have more blood spilt on that floor. One war is enough to come to this castle.” She turned a page over, frowning at it.

Lord Bellamy nodded grimly but a small smile flickered in the corners of his mouth.

“There is a rumor that young Julian and the lady Ilana are keen on each other, but the Hightower patriarch forbids it. Something about ‘soiling the bloodline’ due to the East Anglians having earned their fortune in trade.” He scoffed. “The man forgets his own roots, but it’s all the more reason to keep the families separate.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “A match between Julian and Ilana would be highly beneficial for both families.” She smiled wryly. “Not to mention the Crown. And would likely help to quash whatever started that silly feud they have between them.” A twinkle entered her eye. “Shall we intervene?”

Bellamy chuckled. “Perhaps, Majesty. The two young ones are, by all accounts, quite in love.”

“Then it is a simple matter. Draft a summons to have them brought before me at my first official court assembly. If their queen wills them to marry, their families shall have no recourse but to obey.” Her smile was wistful. “Their love should be given the chance to flourish.”

The recently won Ogre’s War had stolen much from her--much from everyone across her kingdom--over the interminable months of violence. Her father had perished in the fighting, his bravery giving rise to foolishness as he galloped full-tilt towards the battle one red dawn, his longsword high in the air. It was the last image she had of him alive in her mind, and preferable to the sight of his pale, still body as it was paraded in a facsimile of a royal funeral that left her an orphan and a queen at the same time. Her only consolation in the death of her father was that he was able to join her mother, gone some years before him.

The war had also robbed her of her betrothed, Sir Gaston the Large. Aptly named, it was often the only positive attribute assigned to him, outside of his battle prowess. Theirs had not been a love match but he’d at least been a future partner. She had hoped a friendship could develop between them, but fate had other plans; Gaston perished shortly after King Maurice. She hadn’t worried over his sendoff as much as her father’s.

“Speaking of, Majesty,” Bellamy said, tearing her from her memories, “there are still arrangements to be made as pertain to the particular, ah, _alliance_ you must forge and the subsequent,” he gestured in the air, “result of that alliance.”

She gave him a droll look. “Really, Fredrick. Just say ‘marriage’ and ‘heir’. _My_ marriage and heir.” She leaned back in her chair with a huff. 'Business transaction' was a more accurate description for the whole thing. Her stomach twisted in fleeting despair at not even being allowed to properly mourn her father before she was thrust into the world’s marriage market. “Would that I could wait longer.”

He smiled in sympathy. “I know, Majesty. My own nuptials were something of a jolt to me, as I’m sure you know. Being simply _directed_ to a bride, without so much as a by-your-leave of my wishes, was...decidedly unpleasant,” he said wryly.

Belle laughed. She treasured this man for his council, but it was his steadfast friendship seeing her through so much turmoil and heartache as she lost her family one by one that kept him close to her heart. 

“Oh, come off it, Bellamy. You were smitten the moment you saw Aurelia walk down the aisle. I was at the wedding, I saw you! You nearly swallowed your tongue when she lifted her veil.” She smirked, a sly tilt to her mouth. “And if your four beautiful daughters are any indication, you never stopped being smitten.”

He had the grace to blush, the color in his cheeks setting off the silver just beginning to show in his hair. The slight wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened with a smile.

“Aye, Majesty. Sometimes things work out better than we can imagine.”

Belle smiled. “I hope to be as lucky as you. How is Aurelia? And the children?”

He nodded, his shy smile turning wide and proud. “Happy and healthy, thank you, Majesty.”

His four daughters were the perfect blend of their parents; clever, curious little cats that were forever underfoot. Belle could recall more than one meeting interrupted by their sweet giggles at the door. Bellamy tried to shoo them away, back to their schoolmaster, but Belle enjoyed having them near.

They, along with all the other children of the realm, were brought back to the kingdom once the fighting had stopped and all was safe once more. Their laughter was often heard echoing through the long stone corridors as they played, the elastic resilience of youth refusing to let them stay wary for too long. All was right with their world, and every time Belle caught a glimpse of long tresses in shades from brown to blonde as the four dashed past her like mad little woodland creatures, a small piece of her felt both healed and envious.

“Now,” Bellamy said, drawing her again from her reverie, “shall we move to the petitions for your hand?”

Belle sighed, sliding the report of families attending her coronation back towards him and accepting the stack of marriage petitions instead. She scanned the first few, tossing them aside as unsuitable within reading a few short lines. She felt Bellamy’s gaze on her and raised her eyes.

He tilted his head. “Are you even bothering to read them, Majesty?”

She huffed. “It only takes a few sentences to realize when a suitor is...unsuitable.” She picked up a discarded petition. “Take this one, for example. The King of the Sapphire Isles offers his hand.” She tossed the paper at Bellamy.

He caught it reflexively, eyeing it with distaste. “The Widower King? But he swore never to marry again after—”

“After his queen publicly disagreed with him over taxes levied on their poor, and was later found beheaded on one of the king’s ships,” Belle interrupted. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t fancy paying with my life for the sin of disagreeing with my husband. And I also do not relish the idea of submitting my body, soul, and kingdom to a man with very backward ideas about the place of women in society.”

“I see your point.” Bellamy crumpled the paper, tossing it over his shoulder. “But what about this one?” He picked up another of her discarded papers. “What has he done to earn your disapproval?”

“He is thirteen.”

Bellamy stared for a moment, then burst into laughter. “Thirteen! Has he not a mother of his own, then, that they would foist him upon us? Perhaps he is a brat and they are desperate to be rid of him!” He wiped tears of mirth from his eyes.

“Bellamy, this is serious,” she said, rifling through the rest of the stack and ignoring the tug of a smile as his laughter nearly caught her as well. “These offers,” she raised the sheaf, “are paltry at best. How am I supposed to maintain the security of my people without the strongest possible marriage alliance?” She sat back, tossing the rest of the papers on the table. They slid across the polished surface before dumping onto the floor in a cream pile that caught the early afternoon sunlight slanting across the stone.

“Is there no one powerful enough willing to join themselves to us—to _me_ —for our mutual benefit?” She stared absently toward the papers littering the floor. “It’s bad enough that this has to be such a _mercenary_ transaction, devoid of any proper feeling. Are they _trying_ to humiliate me?”

He sent her a sympathetic glance. “Sadly, the only all-powerful one is the Dark One.” Bellamy patted her hand. “We will find you a suitable mate, Majesty. Have faith.”

“Does Aurelia have a cousin?” she muttered, then sighed. “Perhaps I should increase the liquid assets of my dowry. One would think a well-situated kingdom would be enough for a serious offer, but apparently, I am mistaken.” She slumped back in her chair, rubbing her temple. “I do not relish the idea of adding _more_ gold merely to entice a better party to offer, but if I must—”

She stopped, a sudden thought seizing her as his earlier words trickled back through her consciousness. 

“Gold,” she muttered.

“Pardon, Majesty?”

She sat up, the idea swirling and beginning to take form. “He _makes_ gold.”

“Who makes gold, Majesty?”

She turned wide eyes to her advisor. “The Dark One.”

“Ah,” he nodded, “Of course. I see. You wish to add to the customary bride price without taking from our coffers. Do you think the Dark One would be amenable to this? Have you something in mind to trade?”

She shook her head, grasping the arm of her chair and leaning towards him. It was a wild idea. Too wild, perhaps, but it could work if she was very, very careful.

“No. I have a different idea in mind. The Dark One is the most powerful being we know of, you said so yourself.” She gestured absently. “He is the reason we won the Ogre’s War, after all. We were all but doomed until he agreed to deal with me. Perhaps he would make another deal to ensure our protection.”

Bellamy frowned, his mouth opening in confusion. “I-I suppose I can see how this is a natural conclusion in your eyes, Majesty,” he said slowly. “A temporary reprieve to allow yourself time to find a match suited to your station could work.”

She shook her head. “My idea is of a more permanent nature, Frederick.”

“Permanent?”

She nodded. “Yes, it would have to be.”

He sat back, his confused frown deepening. “Majesty, no man would dare offer for your hand knowing he was a permanent fixture here. Which still leaves the question of your heir.” He grabbed a piece of paper from the table, lifting it. “If you shall not suffer any of these fools, then I am at your side to deny them, of course, but—you will need a successor of the blood if the kingdom is not to be torn apart someday.” He shook his head. “I cannot imagine the Dark One wishing to be shackled to us in a deal long past whatever usefulness we may have to him, if we can even offer any. You must still beget a child and that will require a marriage.”

Belle bit her lip, nodding slowly. “I know.”

Dawning realization appeared in Bellamy’s eyes.

“Majesty.”

“Yes.”

He shook his head. “Majesty, no.”

She nodded again, quicker. “Yes.” She shifted in her chair. “And I am...given to believe that he may be open to the idea,” she muttered before hastily pressing on. “Do you not see how perfect a solution this is? Our borders protected, my marriage assured, and,” she blushed but kept her head high, “in the natural course of things, I am certain an heir would be produced.”

He sat back, dazed. “Y-you _cannot_ be altogether serious.” He pointed to the papers on the floor. “Do not let this pile of fools send you into a hasty, dangerous decision.”

She smiled a little tremulously and shook her head. “Hasty, perhaps, but not dangerous.” She reached out once more, grasping his hand where it lay on the armrest of his chair. 

“Not dangerous? Majesty, it is the _Dark One_ we speak of. He could kill us all with a thought.”

“He turned the ogres into butterflies,” she pointed out. “He could have slaughtered them.”

Bellamy slashed his free hand through the air. “Only because you made it part of the deal not to shed more blood, even of our enemies!”

“Frederick,” she sighed, frustrated, “No alliance with _any_ kingdom could truly keep our people safe. But the Dark One,” she paused, taking a breath, “you saw what he did for us, how he returned hope when it was nearly lost. He was our savior, he could be that again. None would challenge him. We could live in peace.”

Bellamy scowled, pulling his hand away from hers.

“No, Majesty. He is opportunistic. He has a foothold in the castle and our lands enough as it is. Marriage to our _queen_ ,” he huffed in disbelief, “would be like hammering the last nail in our coffin _ourselves_.”

Belle shook her head furiously, nearly dislodging the elegant mass of curls pinned up and off her neck—her ‘matters of state’ coiffure, as her maid enjoyed calling it.

“No. You are mistaken, Bellamy. He… ” She paused, gathering her words carefully. “He would only harm those who seek to harm us. He is shrewd, but fair for those clever enough to see it, and we would be safe.”

“How can you possibly know this, Majesty? He keeps to his end of your initial bargain, that is true, but what of the day he grows bored, and decides to slaughter us all and take our home for his own?” He turned his head, scanning the room absently as if willing the answer to his predicament to appear in a far corner.

She took a deep breath. “We shall carefully word the marriage contract, each clause will be written exactly as we mean it so there is no room for loopholes. The best legal minds of our kingdom shall apply themselves to the task.” Her eyes pleaded with him. “You have to trust me. If you don’t, then no one else will even try to understand and I’ll be forced to marry someone who could never do for our people the things the Dark One can.”

Bellamy stared at her, worry and fear clear in his dark eyes.

“Belle,” he said, dropping her honorific, the gesture stripping away all hierarchy between them and taking her back to her childhood when he was her protector in her father’s stead, “harm will come to you if you offer yourself to him. He is a beast and he _will_ hurt you. I cannot see this done. Your father—”

“My father,” she said, cutting him off, “is no longer here. I am queen and shall make the decisions that I believe best fit our future as a kingdom.” 

She stood, preparing to leave, and he hastily rose from his own chair. She sent him a look.

“I expect your loyalty in this as in all things, Your Grace.”

He nodded, casting down his eyes and giving her a shallow bow. 

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TIME FOR SOME SPARKLY LIZARD WIZARD UP IN THIS BITCH.


	3. The Kitchens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter one (1) Sparkly Lizard Wizard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mareyshelley is my moste esteemede friende and beta

_The next morning_  
  


Sleep had been difficult and Belle rose with the first rays of dawn.

Donning a simple grey gown more suited for a garden walk than official royal duties, Belle hurried down to the kitchens. The cooks would be up and preparing the day’s meals; perhaps they could give her something to soothe her troubled stomach, a result of tossing and turning from nerves half the night.

Her steps echoed softly against the stone as she made her way down to the lower level, pale gold shafts of sun just peeking over the windowsills and casting light across the floors and stairs. She loved the stillness of early morning. The palace that had all too recently seen death and destruction had been restored to nearly all its former grandeur through the sheer will of her people. 

It was a home again. Her father would have been proud.

The heavy mahogany kitchen doors had been left open to let in whatever breeze was available from the hall. She slipped through, spotting several people already working hard, up to their elbows in dough or beating eggs in huge bowls. The head chef was giving instructions to a pair of undercooks and she waited until he was finished before making her presence known.

His youthful face lit up as he saw her. Having been at the castle since he was a small boy assisting his own father, the former head chef, Belle and he had practically grown up together. Her love of books encompassed _all_ books, including those on cookery, and he had kindly supervised her multiple disastrous attempts to bake the cinnamon sticky buns she adored but could never seem to master.

“As I live and breathe, it is Her Majesty.” He placed a hand to his heart, a twinkling gleam in his eye. The kitchen stopped its progress as they all turned to gawk and hastily curtsy or bow to her. Her cheeks heated in embarrassment.

“Michele, stop that.” She waved her hands hurriedly at the assembly. “Please, continue your work. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

The clatter took up once more and soon she was forgotten by all but Michele. He sauntered over to her, holding a whisk coated in something creamy and delectable-looking. He held it out to her.

“A new pudding recipe. Be my tester, Majesty?”

She shook her head. “As much as I would love to, and you know I would, I’m afraid my stomach is giving me slight fits this morning.” She pressed a hand to her middle. “Is there mint? Or cardamom pods?”

Michele frowned but beckoned her to follow as he made his way back to the dried herb stores, tossing the whisk in a sink as he went. “But of course, Majesty.” They reached the small alcove where he began rifling through jars, holding a few up to the light as he decided. “If I may be so bold, what troubles you that you seek medicine from my kitchen? Should we not call the royal physician?”

She waved away his concerns. “No, it’s nothing serious. My mind is affecting my body, and as I cannot halt the first, I seek to ease the second.”

Another voice joined their conversation. 

“And what has Her Majesty in such a state?”

She whipped around, the cause of her recent agitation sitting comfortably at a table towards the back of the large kitchen, a stout mug and small plate holding the remains of something gooey and delicious-looking in front of him. Rumplestiltskin plucked the remainder of the treat from the plate—a cinnamon bun, if she wasn’t mistaken—and popped it into his mouth as he pinned her with a curious stare.

“Choices,” she answered carefully. “Or, rather, trying to make the right one.”

Michele drew her attention away from Rumplestiltskin, having selected two small jars she recognized immediately. One contained desert vanilla pods and the other held delicate cold-dried mint leaves from the Kingdom of the Frozen Mountains. A grin flashed on Michele’s stubbled face and he leaned in conspiratorially.

“We shall steep these together for three minutes in just-boiling water for your tisane.” He pressed the jars into her hands and ducked around the corner, retrieving an old, battered teakettle. He took the jars back from her hands and gave her a gentle nudge with his elbow. 

“Sit by the bread counter, Majesty.”

She perched herself on a stool as directed, watching the hive-like intensity of the staff. She could feel the dedication to their craft as surely as she could see the small clouds of flour that lifted from the table each time dough was thrown. Two undercooks pored over a recipe book off to one corner in amiable debate over ingredients. Someone made a joke and the room erupted in a wave of chuckles that washed over her and made her smile. 

Work continued as normal, Rumplestiltskin’s presence giving no one in the kitchen pause. Well, no one but her, of course. Her nerves had dialed up several notches when he made his presence known to her. She took a breath, turning on the stool to face him.

“Rumplestiltskin,” she said, her voice calm though her heart was not, “what brings you to the kitchen?” Her stomach roiled once more and she pressed a surreptitious hand to her middle, willing it to stop. He regarded her with that same curious gaze, his eyes flicking to where her hand rested and she cursed herself for attempting subtlety in front of a being who missed nothing. 

Before he could answer her, if he was even going to, a young kitchen maid practically skipped over to him, holding out a plate with a smile. He took it and gave her a small smile in return.

“Thank you, dearie.”

She curtseyed, taking the empty plate and scampering off. Belle’s eyes fell to two more fat cinnamon rolls resting in a glistening, sticky mess of shimmering glaze. 

Michele reappeared with the kettle and a large mug. His eyes moved to Rumplestiltskin and he frowned, plunking the mug and kettle down in front of Belle unceremoniously.

“That makes three this morning and it’s barely past dawn.” He sent Rumplestiltskin a harassed look. “You are going to _decimate_ my sugar stores, Dark One.”

Belle looked at Michele, aghast at the casual, almost teasing way he addressed the powerful sorcerer. She chanced a look at Rumplestiltskin, his mouth twitching in amusement and taking the sting out of the roll of his eyes. He stood, twirling his fingers and another plate appeared, holding one of the large rolls. 

He picked up his own plate and walked over to Belle, pressing the new one into her hands. She took it with surprise, her eyes wide on his face, but his gaze had swiveled to Michele.

“There. Now I’ve shared with Her Majesty, so settle your hackles, Chef.”

Michele gave him a snort and a smirk, all pretense at harassment dropping. She realized with a start that it was a joke between them, feeling immediately at sea and, if she were honest, a little jealous.

“While you’re both enjoying your treats, shall I show you what _I’ve_ conjured up for our good queen Belle?” He moved to the mug, picking it up and tilting it forward to show its contents.

“Desert vanilla and cold-dried mint with a ration of one part vanilla to two parts mint. I’ll add four fingers of barely boiling water and give it a three minute steep.”

Rumplestiltskin took the mug from Michele’s hand, darting a glance at Belle that slid to her stomach. He set his plate down, giving his full attention to the dried herbs in the mug as Michele moved to stand next to him.

“And the properties that led you to this conclusion?” Rumplestiltskin’s voice was low, curious, with none of the mockery she was used to hearing him shower over others. She watched as they murmured and pointed to the mug. Michele gestured to her and Rumple pressed the mug back into Michele’s hands with a nod.

The chef beamed at him, turning and heading back to the dry herbs alcove, leaving Belle and Rumplestiltskin alone, ignored by the rest of the busy staff.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” she said. “What brings you to the kitchen?”

He shot her a narrow look and she nearly fled on the spot, but royal dignity kept her firmly in place. 

“Cookery is a magic of its own, dearie,” he said, taking up his plate and peeling off a small section of the gooey roll. “And Michele is the closest I’ll get to natural magical ability in this forsaken little backwater.” He popped the piece into his mouth, smirking as he chewed.

She scowled, ire flaring at his insult. She opened her mouth to reply, but stopped. The impish gleam in his smirk told on him. He was teasing her.

He set his plate down, sucking glaze off his fingers before holding his hands out towards her middle.

“May I, Majesty?”

She frowned for a moment before realizing what he wanted. She nodded jerkily, another trill of nerves twisting her overwrought stomach, and jumped at the feel of Rumplestiltskin’s magic as it wound around her middle. It prodded at her, nearly tickling as it moved across her stomach and fluttered under her lungs and heart, curious as a sparrow as it moved inside her ribs.

Given the task she had set for herself—securing what would likely be a very unusual marriage between them—and the resulting nerves that had plagued her half the night, it was nonsensical that the delicate tendrils of his magic soothed her better than any brewed concoction ever could.

The royal physician would be apoplectic if he ever found out she said yes to this. The idea of him expiring on the spot from his own nerves made her giggle and the magic curling inside her gave a warm, deep pulse in response, as if it took joy from her own.

She gasped, surprised at the pleasure that deep throb had brought, her eyes shooting to Rumplestiltskin’s face. 

If she didn’t know better, she would think he blushed just then, but he stayed focused on her middle. All too soon, he slowly extracted the invisible tendrils and she felt her nerves return with each inch the magic retreated.

“You are well,” he said, his voice low, “but yet…anxious.” He raised questioning eyes to her face. “Why?”

Before she could think too much about answering him, she reached out and tugged a small portion of the sticky bun off her plate and popped it into her mouth. The familiar flavors of cinnamon and vanilla warmed her tongue as she chewed and thought. She risked another glance at his face, sucking the sticky glaze off of her fingers. 

He eyed her like one of those peculiar reptiles that inhabited the humid jungles around the southernmost kingdoms. A skitter of lightning-like sensation shot down her spine at the look in his eyes. His chest expanded on a deep breath, his nostrils flaring slightly. She gave him a tremulous smile.

Michele chose that moment to return from the back, his eyes on the jar in his hands, oblivious to the atmosphere between Belle and Rumplestiltskin. 

“It was at the back of the stores but I found some,” Michele said, thrusting the jar at a still-staring Rumplestiltskin. “Allasian pink peppercorn.”

Rumplestiltskin tore his eyes from Belle as he took the proffered jar and swung his attention back to Michele.

“Excellent.” He popped open the lid and pulled out two peppercorns, rolling them in his palm before passing them and the jar back to Michele. “Crush two carefully and add them to the water just as it begins to boil.”

Michele accepted both, grinning as he closed a fist around the dried fruits. “I suppose we’ll call it an even trade then, Dark One. Sugar for pepper.”

Rumplestiltskin twirled a hand, his impishness returning with the gesture, and gave Michele a magnanimous smile and a shallow bow. 

“But of course.” He stepped back as Michele went to make her tea. She sensed the sorcerer meant to magically transport himself back to wherever he came and held out a hand to stop him.

“Rumplestiltskin, wait.”

He paused, turning his gaze to her.

“I—we—I’d like to speak with you, if you have time.”

One eyebrow raised in question at her. She slid off the stool, taking tentative steps towards him and gesturing subtly to the back to lead him away from the people around them.

“It concerns my kingdom and…your place here.”

He stilled at her side, eyeing her warily. She looked up at him, suddenly devoid of words. Whatever motivations she had for proposing their union were buried under the fear he would outright refuse her, leaving her no other recourse but to pick some halfwit from the stack in her office.

“Please, Rumplestiltskin,” she begged in a half-whisper, conscious of the people just a few feet away, “I ask only a few moments.”

He searched her face for a long moment before letting out a shallow sigh.

“As you wish. But if we are to speak, we will do so privately.”

She nodded, a flare of hope challenging her worry. 

“My private office, then. We can use that—”

He held up a finger, cutting her off. 

“I think not. You are desirous of _my_ time so I shall choose the place.” He stepped back. “Drink your tisane and call for me when ready.”

He waved a hand, engulfing himself in a deep purple swirl of smoke that dissipated into the atmosphere as Michele returned with her drink. Settling herself back on her stool, she sipped and tried like mad not to let a fresh wave of trepidation overwhelm her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehehehe


	4. The Workroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shakesperian thanks to mareyshelley, without whom these ideas would never get off the ground.   
> _(Go check out their fic, as well; rare and precious gems await you!)_

Belle called for him as directed, the same funnel of purple smoke encasing her the moment she finished speaking his name. She opened her eyes to see the inside of Rumplestiltskin’s workroom, held deep in the bowels of the castle. 

Long ago, the room had served as a root cellar for the home of her ancestors, but as the prosperity of the land and its people grew, so too did the castle. And when it was no longer large enough to support the storage of winter sustenance for all the castle’s inhabitants, its use fell by the wayside.

Rumplestiltskin had bargained for it in the original deal that had ended the Ogre’s War. That, and ready access to the forests of the kingdom and the various rare flora offerings contained within. When she asked why he only bargained for a room and some greenery, he simply sent her a look before disappearing in his customary cloud of magical smoke. She never did get her answer.

He had since transformed the room into a tidy workspace, with various tables set here and there and instruments for magic-making settled atop them. An iridescent blue liquid bubbled away in a small glass vial set on a metal stand, the concoction boiling without flame and smelling of the sea. Whorls of snow-white vapor rose from the opening. She took a step towards it, fascinated, but Rumplestiltskin cleared his throat, stopping her progress. She turned towards him and he gestured to a table and chairs in the opposite corner from a large spinning wheel. 

Had they been there when she arrived or had he conjured them while she was distracted with the potion? Her world of light and sun, just a few floors above their heads, suddenly felt far away from this dark workroom of smoke and magic, strange shadows lurking in the corners. 

“And what brings the young Majesty to seek my counsel on such a pretty day like today?” 

He sat at the same time she did, another roll of purple smoke revealing a tea service and two small plates, each holding yet another cinnamon bun.

She smiled, unable to help the amusement that bubbled up upon seeing the treats.

“I never finished the one you shared with me in the kitchen,” she said. A corner of his mouth quirked upwards in response but he remained silent.

She smoothed her hands over her lap, an odd wish that she was wearing a prettier dress flitting through her mind, and she shoved it back in shame at herself.

“Rumplestiltskin, I—,” she faltered, her nerves stopping her words. She took a breath and tried again. “I trust you still find your portion of our deal satisfactory?”

He tsked, filling their cups with a twirl of his finger. “So formal. Heavy is the head that wears the crown, even though it’s as yet locked away?”

“Is that a no?”

He lowered his hand. “I am…content,” he said. “Now, there is something you wished to speak with me about, and it’s not our current deal.” He tilted his head. “What is it?”

She twisted her fingers in her lap, overcome by a sudden shyness that made the words hard to expel.

“I-I met with Bellamy yesterday regarding my coronation, among other things.” 

He didn’t respond. Instead, he crossed one leg over the other carefully as he contemplated her. His peculiar eyes rested on her face and made her feel slightly guilty, like a child caught stealing a treat.

Absurd. She was no longer the young girl captured in the forest on Rumplestiltskin’s silly whim; she was a queen. Or nearly, at any rate. And the future of her kingdom was too important for her to sit and titter like a ninny.

She picked up her tea, taking a bracing sip of the hot liquid, prepared to her exact liking. She hummed in surprised pleasure. Magic always did fascinate her—the way it seemed to tune itself to its master, twisting to do their bidding—but it also made her wary.

Or, perhaps it was  _ him _ that made her wary, she thought as he stared at her in that unnerving way once more. As if taking stock of her and assessing her value. Her face heated with a blush and she looked away.

“I’d give my last copper to know that thought,” he said. She flicked her eyes up to him and he smirked at her.

“The coronation is a settled matter,” she continued, ignoring his comment and her blush. “The only thing to do is finalize the seating arrangements and be sure no one is placed near someone they are feuding with.” She managed a small smile as she set her cup down. “Though I am planning to bring a young couple together in such a way that their parents cannot interfere.”

“Ah,” he shifted and the chair creaked under him, “and this is what you require my help with?” He fluttered a few fingers in the air. “Helping your subjects find  _ love? _ ”

The word held a hint of derision and it drew a scowl from her, giving her back some of her spine.

“No,” she said, straightening in her seat. “I am queen and shall make sure they are happily settled on my own, thank you.”

He hummed contemplatively. “Then for what purpose have you sought my aid?”

She closed her eyes, praying for patience. “I came here to ask if you would consider making another deal with me.” She opened her eyes, meeting his narrowed gaze square on.

“Go on.”

She threaded her fingers, squeezing her palms together in her lap. “It concerns the future of my kingdom. I will need to marry after the coronation.”

He remained silent, watchful. 

“Would you…” She trailed off. She’d given thought to the security that would come of the marriage, the help his power would provide to her people, but the actual proposal was beyond her.

“Would I what, child?”

She glared at him. “I am not a child, Rumplestiltskin.”

“These verbal fits and starts of yours would say otherwise.” He picked up his tea, taking a long sip. “A queen who doesn’t have the strength of will to know and speak her mind?” He chuckled into his cup. “How will your people survive?”

“I didn’t come here to discuss my people,” she ground out. “I-I mean, they are a part of this, but not—that is to say—I… _ oh! _ ”

She growled her frustration, anger flaring when he smirked in amusement at her over the rim of his cup.

“Tongue-tied, little one?”

“Stop calling me those things,” she spat. “You’re not my husband yet so your clever pet names can wait.”

She froze, her words hanging in the air between them, her mouth open in shock at what she had let slip. 

The only indication of his surprise was his cold stillness. He sat, unblinking like a snake, for several moments before breaking the silence.

“Explain.”

The word was a low snap. Gone was the impish trickster and in his place was the shrewd, calculating dealmaker. His eyes caught hers and she was unable to look away as the truth wound its way up and out of her mouth. 

“I-I have gone over several petitions for marriage and all were unsuitable for one reason or another.” 

His striated amber-green eyes bored into hers as she spoke. She was helpless before him.

“None of them seem to take the idea seriously. Or as serious as I find it. I must protect my kingdom, my people. None of them are powerful enough to help me keep everyone safe.”

She swallowed around a peculiar tightness in her throat.

“But you—you’re powerful enough to help me, to help my people. And we are friends of a sort, are we not? Given the help you provided that saved my kingdom, and our play in the woods long ago—”

“Stop.”

Her words cut themselves off as he pushed up and out of his chair, stalking toward her. He invaded her personal space, looming over her as he glared down into her eyes. She was forced by their positions to look directly up at him, craning her neck as she leaned back.

“You offer your mortal hand as payment for protecting this little kingdom of yours indefinitely?” His voice had gone low once more, deep and almost sensual notes winding around his words. She nodded, pushing herself out of her own seat to meet him, the movement drawing them nearly flush against each other.

“Yes,” she said, “I do. Among other things. I know what bargain I’m asking.”

“No, little queen.” He pressed closer. “You do not.” 

“You called me ‘queen’.” 

A low rumble in his chest signaled his assent.

“Why? You said yourself that I am not queen, not yet.”

“Because,” he leaned down, his breath striking her ear and making her shiver, “only a queen would be so bold, so brave, as to ask a demon into her kingdom twice. And now, perhaps, her bed?”

His words sent trills of sensation across her skin, the thought of her bed and what they might do there once married causing a peculiar heat to fill her limbs, the likes of which she hadn’t felt since that long-ago stolen kiss.

“You are not a demon,” she rasped.

He chuckled darkly, his head moving closer and she heard him inhale gently.

“That I am, little queen.”

“No,” she protested, bringing her hands up and gently pushing him back. He didn’t resist. “You are simply Rumplestiltskin. A man with extraordinary power and unique skin. Not a demon.”

She marveled at her small, white hands against his dark leathers. The cool surface of his scaled coat soothed the feverish skin of her palms and her fingers twitched against it. He reached up and grasped her hands, pulling them off his chest but not releasing them as he gazed down at her. His thumbs caressed her palms so gently that she wondered if she was imagining it.

“Go, Majesty. You’ve tarried down here too long.”

Her eyes shot to his, worry creasing her brow. 

“Y-you will not help me, then?”

He pushed her away from him, releasing her hands.

“Go.”

Back in her chambers, Belle sank into the chair at her vanity, her breath shaking as she thought over what she had done.

Her frustration had been her downfall. All she had accomplished was banishment without attaining any part of her goal. Failure threatened to choke her and the harsh sting of tears battered her eyes. The thought of returning to the pile of ridiculous petitions made her nauseated. 

If she were honest with herself, she knew that some were not as bad as she made them out to be. A few were even compelling, if one was desirous of being queen in name only while one’s husband ruled everything. That was not her wish. There was a way to ensure the protection of her people without her erasure as a ruler.

She looked up into the mirror. Was she perhaps physically unappealing to Rumplestiltskin? Her face was pleasing enough, she supposed. Unblemished, the skin fair. She was intelligent, had manners drummed into her head since birth that meant she could hold her own with servants and neighboring dignitaries and royalty alike. He would be assured a wife and queen who was capable, elegant, and diplomatic.

Perhaps none of that appealed to him and the rumors that he was no longer a man held merit.

She pushed back from her vanity. No, that wasn’t true, it couldn’t be. She could still recall the kiss they had shared when she was on the edge of womanhood, traipsing through the forest in the silly hope of being caught by the ever-intriguing Dark One. She was well-read enough to understand at the age of eighteen and now at near twenty-five that certain reactions of his had been quite biological. 

She met her eyes in the mirror once more, her face coloring as she recalled with the same clarity how the feel of him, the intimate pressure that nudged the apex of her thighs as they had kissed, had both aroused and frightened her, and how she’d torn herself away from him and scampered back to the castle. And how he had let her go.

She pulled her knees up, hugging them to her chest as she contemplated her situation.

Maybe there was something else he wanted instead. It had been nearly eight years since she had kissed him, after all. He had likely forgotten it, or brushed it off, though she hadn’t. The memory of that kiss, her first and only, still sat with her. She took it out on lonely nights, wondering if she’d ever find someone else who affected her as much as he did. 

She took a deep breath, releasing her hold on her knees and squaring her shoulders at herself in the mirror. 

No more wallowing. She would visit him again on the morrow and ask what she could offer that would prove more enticing than simply marrying her. She would not stop until they came to an agreement, for, as he told her during their first deal, when one party has something the other wants, a deal can always be struck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's a funny way to propose marriage to an all-powerful sorcerer.
> 
> (also, I'm sorry it's such a short chapter!)


	5. The Forest

_ The next morning... _

Official duties occupied Belle’s mind and time to the exclusion of all else the entire morning, but she was grateful. Matters of state, choices for the coronation, and a rather lengthy privy council meeting drained each hour away until she realized with a start that the midday hour was upon them.

“Gentlemen,” she said, standing and waiting until all were standing with her, “the day is fine, and more than a few of you have loudly complaining stomachs.” A wave of soft chuckles passed through the group and a few councilors ducked their heads. “I propose we table these discussions until later this week and for the moment, satisfy our more pressing needs.” She inclined her head in thanks. “Good day, my lords.”

A chorus of well-wishes for the day followed Belle as she exited the council room, fanning herself once she was clear of the doors.

“Fine  _ and _ hotter than the air some of them were spewing at me,” she muttered. One of her guards smothered a snort, but she caught it nonetheless, smirking as they walked towards her private chambers.

Her maid dipped into a curtsey when Belle arrived. “Your midday meal is waiting, Your Majesty.” She followed Belle inside the large room, where indeed a small, sumptuous spread awaited her. 

Belle winced. She appreciated the work that went into it but on warm days like this one, her appetite shrunk to nearly nonexistent. She would rather be outside, walking the grounds and letting her thoughts tumble over themselves; it had always been her favorite way of solving a problem. Pulling out a handkerchief, she placed a small selection of fruit and a bit of bread and cheese inside, tying it up securely.

“Send my heartfelt thanks to Michéle,” she said, turning to her maid, “but I cannot consume all of this by myself, least of all on a day with such warmth.” She smiled. “Take what you like, and be sure to pass a bit to the guards.”

Her maid curtseyed once more in thanks as Belle left her chambers. Alerting her guards to her plans to walk the grounds and take a bit of air by herself, she waved off their respectful protests as she made her way to the stairs and out to the gardens that met her forest.

The gardeners had worked miracles with the land after the war had ended, restoring it from the trampled mess of mud and wood that had served as the soldiers’ camp to pristinely-manicured pathways that swirled around verdant lawns and blossoming plants. She’d heard a rumor that Rumplestiltskin offered his services to aid them and lessen their burden, but her gardeners had stubbornness that ran as deep as their pride. Naturally, they politely declined his offer. However, one had insisted to the Dark One that all the magic one needed was in one’s own hands, if they were willing to work hard enough to find it. His fellow workers had been certain the man was to become a toad for the rest of his days, but to their eternal surprise, the Dark One had merely chuckled and agreed.

Her mother, the late queen Collette, had loved the gardens, and even did some work in them from time to time, and that love had been passed onto Belle. She waved to the gardeners as she entered the vast green domain, smiling as they doffed their wide-brimmed hats and bowed in return. The most beautiful roses they grew were beginning to bloom, the unfurling buds soaking up the warmth of the day, as other flowers showcased their own bright colors under the sun. The comforting scent of cut grass met Belle’s nose and she breathed deeply, taking a bit of fruit from the handkerchief as she walked along the curving paths and towards the forest.

It was that particular stretch of woods that had been the center of her original deal with Rumplestiltskin. Avonlea woods was the apparent holder of a few rare plants and roots that were otherwise quite costly to procure. He—or rather, his magic—had found it worth the trade to end the war in exchange for unfettered access to the forest. He never hunted game, never fished, nor swam in the waterfall pond, as far as she knew. He simply collected what was his due and used it for his spells. She hadn’t asked which kinds of spells; so long as he was fair to her people, she was content to let the matter pass until such time as understanding became urgent.

As the warmth coalesced beneath her gown, the lingering thoughts of the waterfall pond began to hold an ever-growing allure, until she had made up her mind to take a short swim in the cool waters before heading back to the palace. Perhaps it would clear her mind enough to think of how best to approach Rumplestiltskin once more. 

The waterfall pond was easy for her to find; she’d played there many times as a child and it was the one place she was guaranteed complete privacy. No one seemed to know that she knew about it and she could float on the cool waters in peace, birdsong and rushing water the only sounds around her. And she always swam nude; it felt strange to wear a shift in such a place of natural beauty. The first time she indulged the whim made her feel free as the blue sky above the forest oasis and she had never looked back.

Stripping off her things, she laid them on a small boulder just out of reach of the gently lapping waves. She took a moment to savor the cool mist made by the waterfall as she unbound her hair, breathing deep and feeling unfettered for the first time in months. Leaves shuffled nearby and she turned with a gasp, instinctively clutching an arm across her breasts and a hand over the secret place between her legs, but saw nothing. She sighed, feeling foolish; there were birds everywhere, and other animals, too. She needn’t be such a goose about them making noise. 

She still took one last quick look before diving smoothly into the pond. The rush of cold water against her skin was delicious and she broke the surface with a relieved laugh, swimming over to the waterfall and indulging the desire to play in the foam for a moment before pushing off a rock and floating on her back to the middle of the pond. The sun warmed her nude belly and breasts as the water kept the rest of her cool, the contrast pleasant and drowsing.

Brave minnows nipped at her toes and she wiggled them in response, snorting her amusement at the intrepid little fish. One nipped particularly hard and she yelped, kicking her foot out and putting an end to her serene floating. She shrugged, fine with returning to a leisurely swim, but the moment she turned she felt a small, sharp pinch to her bottom. She shrieked, her hand moving to the stung spot as she turned in the water, trying to see what else had bitten her in its quest to find a meal.

“Well, now. Look what I’ve found.”

Belle whipped around with a splash and a gasp, her gaze landing on Rumplestiltskin. He perched, calm-as-you-please in his thick leathers, on the boulder where she had left her clothing. Forced as she was to tread water lest she drown, she couldn't even cover herself; the water was crystal clear, and she knew her body was highly visible, almost down to her feet. She could try to move further from him but he could bring her back by magic if he so wished, rendering any escape for the sake of modesty a fool’s errand.

Stuck in the middle of the pond, her cheeks heated in embarrassment. What would he do? Would he harm her in her vulnerable state? She pushed the question away as stupid. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t do that when she was clothed. And irreverent—borderline inappropriate—as he could be, he’d never once made her feel afraid for her person. So she chose bravery and stared back at him defiantly.

“It’s impolite to disturb a queen while she’s bathing, Rumplestiltskin.”

He pressed a hand to his chest. “Is there a queen about? I must have missed her.”

“You know exactly what I mean,” she said through clenched teeth. He chuckled, crossing his legs and propping his folded hands on his knee.

“Why, yes, I do,” he said, the amusement rich in his voice, “but you’re not the official queen yet, dearie. From where I’m sitting, you look like little more than the help.” 

She let out a frustrated sigh. “You are so  _ rude _ .”

He sent her a frown, tsking at her.

“Mouthy, mouthy, little Princess.” He tilted his head. “And foolishly brave, swimming skyclad by yourself. Why,” he flourished a hand, “all manner of beasties could accost you out here.”

She grit her teeth, his words rankling.

“Regardless of whether or not  _ you  _ acknowledge it,” she said archly, refusing the shame that tugged at her for her nudity, “I am queen and shall do as I wish.” She smirked. “Even if that means swimming nude in  _ my _ pond in  _ my _ forest.”

“Ooh!” He wriggled in his seat, tossing her a sassy grin of his own. “Confidence; I like it. You almost sound like a grown-up,  _ Your Majesty _ .” 

Belle glowered at him. “I  _ am _ grown, you sparkling imp. You know that damn well.” 

He quirked an eyebrow, his gaze dropping lower than her face. “In a manner of speaking,” he said as his eyes returned to hers. His demeanor changed in an instant, and he stood with a sigh of comical sorrow, balancing on the boulder with apparent ease. “The _ abuse _ I am made to withstand; the  _ insults _ . Ah, well. I shall have to bear up as best as one can when ruled by a despot.” He winked at her, his smirk returning. “Find me when you are ready to act like the adult you purport to be, dearie.”

“I should say the same to you!” Belle shouted as he waved his hand, disappearing once more in his cloud of smoke. She let out a yell of frustration, slapping the water hard enough to spook several birds into taking flight.

Her peaceful afternoon was decimated, her mind once more in chaos. She left the pond, squeezing out her hair harder than necessary and drying her body roughly with her shift, heaving it to the ground as she growled all manner of uncomplimentary things about the ridiculous wizard and his antecedents. Dressing with angry haste, she stomped back towards the castle, jamming her provisions into her mouth and chewing with unladylike gusto. At least her ire at Rumplestiltskin had not dimmed her renewed appetite.

Some kind fate must have taken pity on her, for Belle returned to her personal chambers without being accosted by anyone. It was for the best she remained alone for the time being; her annoyance hadn’t abated and she feared taking it out on an undeserving party, rather than the person whose due it truly was.

She changed into a fresh shift and rose-colored gown, allowing her maid to do the back lacing while Belle buttoned the wrists of the tight sleeves. She mulled over options for occupying the afternoon while her maid styled her hair in a becoming bun at the nape of her neck, finally deciding to catch up on personal correspondence, hoping it would soothe her raised hackles.

She penned a note to a good friend from a neighboring kingdom, one hers had never found cause to quarrel with, keeping her tone contented. No need to cause alarm, or risk rumors spreading of any sort. Besides, the only true thorn in her side at the moment was Rumplestiltskin.

She sat back in her chair at the thought of him, setting down her quill. He seemed to have two moods around her, both extremes. Merciless teasing that left her frustrated and tongue-tied, or a reservedness that was nearly cold. Yet he was capable of kindness, of that she was certain. It was a quiet sort of kindness, reserved for what she could only assume were those most deserving of it, at least in his opinion. Children, servants, animals. Even she had been the recipient of his benevolence at times, guarded though it may be. On the other side of that particular coin, Rumplestiltskin didn’t care for nobles, to be generous about it. They preferred to keep their distance from him as well, so the issue remained moot. 

Belle sighed after a moment, giving up her confused pondering before it gave her a headache. She tucked the half-finished letter into a safe place and pushed away from her writing desk to stand at the nearby window. Opening the leaded glass pane, she leaned partways out, breathing in the cool air that flowed around the higher parts of the castle. 

Propping herself on her folded arms, she watched a group of children play in the courtyard below, their parents on a bench nearby, snug against one another in the shade. The flashes of sunlight on the girls’ long hair marked them as Frederick and Aurelia’s daughters, and Belle smiled wistfully. One turned, glancing up as if she sensed Belle’s attention and prodded at her sisters, who all turned and offered sweet curtseys to their queen before jumping back up and waving with excited shouts. Their parents turned and made to get up to bow, but Belle waved at them to stay seated. They caught her message but nodded their heads respectfully anyway before turning back to the girls. 

The scene soothed her, the cool breeze refreshing her mind and she decided she would try again with Rumplestiltskin. This time, however, she would remain calm, no matter his teasing. She would keep her plans clear, regardless of any hidden fascination she may harbor for the unique sorcerer. Personal desires must be put to the side; he was her best chance for the kingdom’s future safety.

She didn’t call out for him as she usually would. This time, she merely whispered his name on the breeze, too content where she was to move just yet. It worked, the atmosphere of her chambers shifting with his arrival.

“Finally ready to act like an adult, dearie?”

She laughed through her nose and shook her head, still watching the girls play. “I’ve been an adult since the day my mother died, Rumplestiltskin.” She unfolded her arms, grasping the window ledge with her hands and leaning back. “My age has never been a reflection of that.”

She turned, a sad, personal smile on her mouth, and caught a peculiar expression on his face. Almost like longing. He blinked and it was gone in an instant, leaving her to wonder if she had imagined it. Likely so. She squared her shoulders, clasping her hands together and taking a few steps towards him.

“I would like to continue our discussions, if you are amenable,” she said, watching patiently for his reaction. He clasped his hands in front of himself, a mirror of her actions, but she didn’t sense mockery in the gesture. He turned, sitting in a nearby chair as if he owned it, and crossed one leg carefully over the next. His hands fluttered down to his lap and he regarded her with an interested look.

All sorts of teasing lines came to her mind, and if she didn’t know better, she would think he put them there himself. What was it about him that always made her want to poke at him so?

“Your thoughts are written all over your face, Princess.” He smirked. “How you listen to what those half-wit council members tell you without giving away your disdain for them is a mystery.”

Belle rolled her eyes. “You’re the only one who drives me to violence, Rumplestiltskin,” she said wryly.

He pressed a hand to his chest. “My, my. A budding warrior? And a woman, no less?” His grin turned sharp. “How lovely.” 

Crossing her arms, she took a few more steps forward. “Oh, stop it. I’m not going to become a berserker; it’s only  _ you _ who drives me insane.”

“Do I, now.”

“Yes.”

“Well, then,” he said airily, standing, “I’m afraid I can’t negotiate to lend more of my considerable power to someone who admits they are without their wits.” He giggled at his own rhyme. 

“What? No, it was a jest, I—” She stopped as his grin widened. Her shoulders slumped and she let out a relieved little laugh. “You are wicked.”

“You have no idea.” He gestured for her to come closer. “If we are to, ah, speak once more, we shall yet do so on my terms.”

“Are we going back to the basement laboratory?” She took a tentative step towards him, narrowing her eyes. 

He steepled his fingers against his mouth. “Mmm, no,” he said, pointing them at her. “To the Dark Castle.”

The words gave Belle a thrill. She had never seen his castle, sometimes wondered if it even existed, but then, he had to go somewhere when he wasn’t on her grounds, hadn’t he? She bit her lip, trying to be serious instead of smiling in her excitement but couldn’t quite manage it.

“When shall we go?” She moved to stand directly in front of him, close enough to see the amber-green striations of his eyes as they focused intensely on her.

“Perhaps…now?” 

Before she could respond, he slid an arm around her waist, tugging her close, and transported them with a wave of his hand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 


	6. The Dark Castle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember that gif of the devil from last time?

They arrived in a cloud of roiling purple smoke, his arm secure around her the entire short trip. She looked around in awe as the smoke cleared, too curious to reprimand him for his forwardness with her person. 

They were in some sort of great room, a long table stretching down the center with just two chairs situated at the end furthest from them. Everything around her was done in claret and mahogany, the occasional dot of pewter, gold, or silver breaking up the red— a dramatic room, befitting its owner.

Rumplestiltskin released her, sauntering over to the high-backed chair at the head of the table, and with a wave of his hand, the same tea service appeared as had been in his workroom. He sat, preparing himself a cup.

Belle stood where they had landed, unsure of how to proceed. It was his domain, this masculine expanse with foreign treasures lining every surface. High windows let in long slats of light, catching the subtle shimmer in his peculiar skin and making it shine. His gaze flickered over to her.

“Well?” he said, gesturing lazily to the expanse of table. “Are you going to regale me with your brilliant plans from all the way over there, or will you deign to sit at the Dark One’s table?” He took a sip of his tea, eyeing her over the rim.

Belle frowned lightly, vowing to herself that one day she would master enough knowledge about him to handle his mercurial moods. Until then, she was forced to reckon with them as they came, but she refused to be meek. She walked to the table and seated herself to his immediate left, nearly smirking in her amusement as her choice managed to stop him mid-sip.

“May I?” She gestured to the tea set, and he stared at her for a moment before twirling his fingers, a small plume of smoke depositing a steaming cup of tea in front of her, two small sugar biscuits tucked into the saucer. 

“Thank you,” she said, taking a cautious sip of the steaming liquid. Her eyes closed briefly in pleasure and a little hum escaped her. The tea was again made exactly to her liking. She opened her eyes, prepared to ask him how he knew, but the words stopped in her throat at the intensity of his gaze. An assessing hunger played in the amber-green depths and she looked away, her eyes falling to the sparkling sugar dusted atop the small biscuits nestled on her saucer.

“Majesty.” Her eyes shot back up to his, all traces of the intense look gone. Perhaps she had imagined it. “You wished for us to speak. Again.” 

She nodded, taking another bracing sip of her tea before setting the cup down with a decisive clink.

“I did. I do.” She took a deep breath, her nerves returning suddenly. _Oh, for heaven’s sake_. She’d already laid the groundwork details for why she was pursuing this path; what was so hard about further discussion? It wasn’t a marriage contract negotiation, not yet at any rate. Merely a discussion on how to get there. She was a ninny.

Folding her hands, she rested them on the table and met his eyes squarely, quashing her nerves.

“Yesterday,” she began, “I...inelegantly asked you for a rather large and cumbersome favor.”

“A favor?” He giggled. “It was altogether more than that, dearie.”

She smiled tightly, keeping a firm rein on her temper. It wouldn't do to antagonize him and ruin this before it started. “Yes, of course. But I stand by my wishes, however clumsily they were expressed.” She raised her chin. “After the coronation in one month’s time, I would like to begin formal negotiations for a matrimonial union between ourselves.”

He sat silently, his unnerving gaze pinned to her, his only motion one long finger tapping slowly against his cup.

“And what are the terms?”

She sat back. Deals, contracts, agreements; these were his stock-in-trade and one verbal slip could send her down a very dangerous slope. Her deal to end the war had been far simpler than this one, and she needed to keep all her wits about her, despite how privately thrilled she was to have the chance to use them with him. His mind fascinated her as much as it frustrated.

“The major terms would be discussed after the coronation, with my advisors, you, and me. They will draft the contract and we will review it at a mutually agreed upon time, in my private office.”

He narrowed his eyes back at her, a corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“Clever girl.”

“I believe you mean, _queen_.” She smiled serenely.

He selected a tiny biscuit from the tea tray. “Not yet,” he sang, settling the sweet on his tongue and drawing it into his mouth with a flick before chewing.

“Soon enough.”

He chuckled, dark and low. “Tell me, then, why I should be interested.” He waved an artfully careless hand. “What do I stand to gain from such an alliance?”

“I should think that’s obvious.”

He leaned forward. “Pretend I’m simple.”

She took another deep breath. “Well, provided that the contract negotiations go well and both parties approve the final draft, you can reasonably expect the same rights and privileges as King Consorts before you.”

“And those would be…?”

“Enumerated at the negotiation table.”

He grunted, scowling. “So far I see no pressing reason why I should shackle myself to a kingdom for the duration of your mortal life.” His scowl transformed into a nasty grin. “Though I’m tempted to say yes just to see the looks on the nobles’ faces.”

“You would not be saying yes to a betrothal, merely to the negotiation of terms. It would be…nonbinding.” Belle pressed her hands flat on the table. “But if I may offer another small incentive?”

He waved a hand in invitation. 

“By all means, Princess. But, as you no doubt recall, I make gold, have no use for jewels or palatial property, and can kill with a blink, should I wish. So, whatever your _incentive_ is, it had better be good.”

She squared her shoulders, meeting his mocking gaze fully.

“Me.”

He scoffed. “You can’t count yourself twice, dearie. Unless you have a secret copy of yourself hidden somewhere I’m not aware of?”

She ignored his odd humor. “No, I cannot count myself twice. I can, however, offer myself in two ways, both everlasting.”

Her cryptic riddle took a moment to settle over him and she watched his face go slack as he registered her meaning. He sat back, silent for several moments and she waited for his reaction. This was the moment of truth. Smaller moments of the past two days had led to this, and she would see once and for all how indifferent to her he truly was.

He drummed the fingers of one hand on the arm of his chair, his eyes locked on the table.

“No,” he finally answered after a long stretch of silence. Her heart plummeted as her confused anger rose.

“Why?” She didn’t bother to keep the hurt from her voice.

He looked at her, finally, and she was taken aback at his haunted expression.

“I would not make you the Dark One’s whore for any reason. Not even as payment for protecting your kingdom.”

The harsh word stung, but she ignored it. She shook her head at him, befuddled.

“It’s exactly the opposite, Rumplestiltskin.”

“No,” he growled, “it’s not.”

“It would be a legally-binding contract and official royal marriage.”

He snorted. “Laws. I am the Dark One, dearie. The laws of man hold no sway over me and you bloody well know it.”

She was at an utter loss. Really, though; what had she expected? Unfettered access to her body, her kingdom, anything he could want or need would likely always pale in comparison to the power he already held. Still, she had to try.

“What would make the deal more palatable?” She dropped all pretense that this wasn’t part of the negotiation, desperation and worry making her rash. “What would your magic demand as the price this time?”

His eyes shot to her, disbelief writ clear across them before they shuttered and he flicked a dismissive hand, glancing away. “Nothing. You have nothing of use.”

She ground her teeth in frustration. She wasn’t done fighting, not by a long shot. “I’ll give you anything.”

The fingers that had picked up drumming on his teacup stopped, an odd shudder going through his body. He took a deep breath. “Never,” he ground out, “say that to me again.”

“Why?” She leaned forward in her chair. “I meant it. For the protection of my people, I would give anything.”

His eyes narrowed dangerously. “Are you so reckless? I told you never to repeat that to me,” he growled.

“And yet I still mean it. Anything. My kingdom, my body, my—”

“ _Enough!_ ” he roared, shooting out of his chair and hauling her by the arm out of hers, whipping her around to face him as he bore her down to the table, kneeing her legs apart and settling between her thighs, looming over her.

“Is this the sight you wish to see, _Your Majesty?_ ” He slammed his hands on either side of her head, lowering his torso to hers. She could hear the wood splinter under his grip. “Each night pinned under a demon as he slakes his lust with your body? Plants his seed in your womb?” He brought a hand down to grip her jaw, the movement strangely reminiscent of their forest interlude so long ago.

“That’s how you wish to spend your short life? Queen by day, the Dark One’s whore by night, pitying whispers behind your back about the degrading things you’re forced to do as payment for the security of your borders?”

She brought her hands up, buffeting them against his chest as best she could in the minuscule distance between their bodies. “Not _whore_ , Rumplestiltskin. Wife. Queen.” She grabbed his jaw in turn, some dark thing inside her unlocking at his rough treatment, knowing it to be for show and adoring it regardless. 

“ _Ruler_ ,” she spat through clenched teeth.

He snarled before crashing his mouth down upon hers in a brutal, punishing kiss meant to teach a lesson, but perhaps not the one he had in mind.

She softened underneath him, willing and wanton and relieved, her hand falling away from his jaw and moving to join her other one as they sought purchase on the stiff leather collar of his coat. His mouth worked hard over hers for a few moments before gentling ever so slightly, and she realized he was reaching down, rucking up her skirt, baring her legs to the cool air of the great room. He pressed his hips into her, the intimate pressure of him sending her head reeling with sensation as his nails scratched against the skin of her thigh, his warm, rough hand squeezing the muscle and making her jump.

The desperate whine that escaped her throat was enough to break whatever hazy, sexual spell they’d been under and he stopped touching her as quickly as he’d begun. His eyes met hers for a moment, both of them breathing heavily against one another, before he levered himself off her, shooting backward almost comically fast, and pressing the back of one hand to his mouth.

She lay there, too dazed to move, her breathing refusing to return to normal despite her attempts to marshal it. She pushed herself up to sitting after a moment, shoving her skirts down as she did so. She looked at Rumplestiltskin, panic lancing through her at the blank look on his face.

She called his name and he took another step back, refusing to meet her eyes. She slid off the table, grasping the edge to steady herself as her legs shook from the onslaught and then abrupt departure of intense sensation.

And just as abruptly, she was in her bedchamber, atop her bed and staring at the purple smoke of his magic as it dissipated into the air. She looked around, bewildered for a moment before flopping down with a loud groan of frustration. She grabbed a pillow, stuffing it against her mouth and letting the groan turn into a litany of shouted, unladylike curses.

He certainly wasn’t indifferent to her; that much was clear. What wasn’t clear was how in the hell she was ever going to get him to agree to marry her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 


	7. The Coronation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The most wondrous of friends, mareyshelley, is the reason this fic sees the light of day. I am forever in their debt.

_The night before the coronation, late into evening..._   
  


Belle sat with her chin propped on a hand as she regarded the ink splotches on the missive in front of her. Its predecessors surrounded the desk in a haphazard semicircle, crumpled balls of rejected ideas destined for the fire—each one a failed attempt to write to Rumplestiltskin.

Thoughts of him had been pushed to the back of Belle’s mind as the coronation drew near, arrangements and fittings and merchants taking up every bit of her time. But as the final eve before the ceremony was upon her, all she could suddenly think about was her sorcerer.

She scoffed, tossing down the quill with a shake of her head. Rumplestiltskin wasn’t _her_ anything. At least, not yet. Or so she hoped. The scribbled lines of her note mocked her, their courtly politeness chafing against her irritation. She simply didn’t know what to say to him.

Pulling one leg up to her seat, she wrapped her arms around it, resting her chin on her knee. A cold breeze blew in through the open window, nudging her tumbling curls and making gooseflesh rise across her bare shoulder where her shift had slipped. She welcomed the shiver. The sultry heat of deep summer had given way to a crisp autumn, the drop in temperature imbuing the castle inhabitants and surrounding villages with renewed industry. 

If only her mind would react the same.

Frustration rising quickly, she stood, snatching the unfinished note from her desk and crumpling it into a tight ball. She stomped to the hearth, all but hurling the paper into the slowly dying embers. They flared briefly, consuming their prize in a flash of yellow flame before settling back into deep, shifting reds.

“We’ve talked about your violent streak, my dear.”

Belle jumped, gasping in fright. She whipped around to see Rumplestiltskin standing in the shadows, leaning against her desk and tossing a crumpled note from hand to hand. 

“Damn it, Rumplestiltskin.”

Pushing away from her desk, he moved towards her, tsking and shaking his head.

“What a monarch the people are to obtain on the morrow. Vulgar, rude,” he stopped in front of her, dropping the ball of paper into her hands, “wasteful.”

“I’m none of those things,” Belle retorted, tossing the ball to join its ashen cousin in the grate. “You’re just particularly good at vexing me.” She crossed her arms, glaring up at him despite the softer thoughts that had inhabited her mere moments before. “Why are you popping into the private royal chambers after dark?”

Shrugging, Rumplestiltskin turned and meandered a bit closer to the fire. A flick of his finger resurrected the flames, and he held his hands out with a satisfied hum.

“There’s a chill in here,” he offered in the silence.

“There is,” Belle admitted. “Thank you for seeing to that. It’s very kind.”

He shot her a look from the corner of his eye before slinking to a chair near the hearth.

“It’s nothing of the sort.” He sat, leathers creaking as he regarded her with a smirk. “I merely supplied what my host was too ill-mannered to offer.”

Belle sighed, turning to settle on the récamier opposite the chair he occupied.

“Are you going to answer my question or spend all night insulting me?” She propped an elbow on the raised end closest to the fire, resting her cheek against her hand and sending him a droll look.

He remained silent for several moments, staring into the flames as the fingers of one hand drummed against the arms of the chair.

“I did not come to insult you,” he said at long last, still gazing into the fire.

Belle wriggled, drawing her legs onto the long cushion and tugging a lap blanket to cover her calves and ankles, making herself more comfortable.

“Then what brings you here?” she said as she fussed. When finally she stopped and looked up at him for a response, he had switched his gaze from the hearth to her; an odd, almost pained expression hinting around his eyes. She frowned. “Are you alright?”

As if waking from a spell, he blinked and quickly turned his gaze back to the fire.

“Fine,” he rasped, fluttering a finger at her. “Your…bedgown.”

Belle looked down at herself, confused before she recalled the night rail she wore, a shift she had made herself as a young girl. It was far too long, too large, and clumsily sewn, but she loved it all the same for having made it with her own two hands. She blushed; being overlarge as the shift was, it meant one shoulder or the other was forever falling down.

Which meant Rumplestiltskin had a clear view of her skin nearly down to her breast.

“Oh,” she muttered, tugging the neckline higher and holding it. “My apologies.”

He waved, dispelling her words and shifting in his seat. “‘Tis nothing.” 

“I made it myself,” she blurted, seeking to dispel the awkward net she’d cast. “As a girl.” Her blush grew as she blathered on. “I’m not skilled with needlework and my mother wanted to discard it. I begged her to let me keep it.” 

The corner of his mouth she could see quirked upward, a faint chuckle escaping him.

“I can’t imagine anyone denying you anything, once you’ve set your mind to it.”

She managed a small smile of her own. “Being queen helps.”

This time, he turned to face her. “Not yet,” he replied, but the usual teasing note that accompanied the pedantic reminder was gone. In its place, there lay almost sadness. Silence fell between them once more, broken only by the softly crackling fire, the flames spilling light across the large hearth rug and casting shadows on her walls. 

“I was writing to you,” she said, her voice soft. “All the crumpled papers are my failed attempts.” 

“Were you?” His brow raised in what seemed to be genuine surprise. “Excoriations, no doubt.”

“About what?”

He sent her a faintly disbelieving look. “Do you not recall how we…left things?”

Belle thought back to her brief moments in the Dark Castle and how they had indeed _left things_. A delicious shiver caught her unaware at the memory of him above her, kissing her deeply as he rucked up her dress, grasping her thigh with one warm, long-fingered hand. A hand she wanted to slide higher until he— 

She blinked away the memory, clearing her throat. 

“I do,” she said. “I’m still not quite certain what offense I caused, but I do not wish to rebuke _you_.”

His eyes narrowed, staring at her as if she were the rarest of oddities he longed to dissect.

“You’re a peculiar one, Majesty.”

She bristled, nearly pouting. “I thought you weren’t here to insult me.”

Rumplestiltskin shook his head slowly. “Oh, no. It’s not an insult.” Steepling his fingers, he leaned back, eyes still narrowed and lips slightly pursed. Her gaze fell to his mouth, more memories of their interlude intruding on her thoughts.

“Why needlework?”

She blinked. “W-what?”

“Your bedgown,” he said, pointing with two steepled fingers.

“Oh, well,” she demurred, casting her eyes to the rug, “I was trying to find something more, ah, ladylike to occupy my time rather than…”

“Than what?”

She let out a light snort. “Than books. My father used to say I read too much.”

He hummed. “Well, I have heard that a well-read woman is a dangerous thing.”

“Oh, really?” She laughed, lowering her head to pillow on her arms as she watched him. “Then I must be quite savage.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” he purred. A trickle of heat gathered between her legs, and she pressed them together, searching for an alternative topic.

“Will you be attending the coronation?”

He tilted his head. “In a manner of speaking.”

“What manner is that?” He sent her a secretive smile in lieu of response, and she rolled her eyes. “Fine, do not tell me.”

His smile faded a bit. “What were you writing to me?”

His whip-fast changes of subject were going to make her head spin trying to keep up, she thought, but she managed a shrug. “A request to attend contract negotiations after the coronation.”

Again that curious stare. “And what’s so hard about writing simply that?” 

“Everything I tried seemed too formal,” she said, a jaw-cracking yawn catching the end of her sentence. She blinked. “Goodness, where did that come from?” Another yawn chased the first and his odd expression cleared, making way for concern. 

“You need rest. Come,” he said, standing and beckoning to her. “Time for bed.”

She scowled. “I’m not a child, Rumplestiltskin.”

“Yes, I’m quite aware,” he sighed, “but you need all the rest you can get before tomorrow. Now come, you stubborn thing.”

He moved to her side, scooping her up and off the little seat before she even knew what was happening. She gasped, grabbing onto his lapels.

“I won’t drop you, sweet,” he murmured soothingly. “You’re safe.”

She hid her flaming face as he walked over to her bed, mortified at the thought of being tucked in like a sickling, and by Rumplestiltskin of all people. If all went accordingly, he would end up her husband with rights to her bed, but in the privacy of night and as yet unmarried, her thoughts tumbled over themselves.

Somehow, he managed to pull the covers back enough to settle her comfortably, and she had no small doubt that magic had been used. She considered batting his hands away as he tugged the blankets up to her lap, but a traitorous part of her, the sliver that wasn’t embarrassed to her toes, enjoyed the fussing. Nevermind how incongruous it was to see her leather-clad sorcerer fret over her like a hen.

After smoothing the last wrinkle, he stood upright, giving a small, satisfied nod before shifting in the way that signaled to Belle he was preparing to transport himself.

“Wait,” she called, hoping he would heed the request. He stilled, setting wary eyes on her. 

“Yes?”

“Please come to the contract negotiation. It will be one week from tomorrow, in the morning.” She twisted her hands in the blanket, crushing the soft fabric in her nervousness. “If you have not arrived by the last chime of the midmorning hour, I will take that as your declination to participate and will bother you no more about this.”

He regarded her for a moment longer before moving forward, bending to place a gentle, lingering kiss on her forehead. The smell of woodsmoke and juniper filled her lungs as she breathed, leaning almost imperceptibly into the light pressure.

As he moved back, he wouldn’t meet her eyes. With a wave of his hand, he disappeared in his cloud of swiftly dissipating smoke. What should have thrilled her with its sweetness instead filled her with worry.

It hadn’t felt like a promise. It had felt like goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	8. The Contract

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Mareyshelley <3

_One week later, nearly midmorning…  
  
_ “Majesty, I must admit to doubt that he will show.”

Belle drummed her fingers on the table of her private meeting chamber, glancing surreptitiously at the timepiece against the wall. Rumplestiltskin still had two minutes before the appointed meeting time, but still.

“He will come,” she said, but whether to reassure Bellamy or herself, she wasn’t sure.

“But if he does not—”

“He will,” she snapped, turning to pin him with a hard stare. Bellamy dropped his eyes, muttering an unconvinced affirmation as he reshuffled the small sheaf of papers in front of him. The other privy council members exchanged glances that Belle did not miss. She resisted rolling her eyes; if there was one thing of which she was certain, it was that Rumplestiltskin worked on his own time. If he didn’t show, there was nothing she could do to change his mind. If he did—

The timepiece struck the hour, and she held her breath as the chimes marched towards their conclusion. Her heart beat rapidly, her anxiety increasing with every drawn-out peal. The fifth passed, then the sixth, and seventh, yet she refused to entertain the sliver of doubt inside her. So focused was she on the chiming that she missed the slight ripple of atmosphere in the room.

“I’ve always wondered what nobles do all day.”

The council members jumped in frightened unison, turning in their seats to look past her, and Belle closed her eyes briefly at the surge of relief that filled her. The nobles were still staring when she opened her eyes, and she took it to mean Rumplestiltskin was directly behind her, if the banked fright in their expressions was any indication.

She quietly sighed. “There you are,” she said under her breath and caught his low responding chuckle. His boots sounded against the stone floor as he rounded the side of her chair.

“Majesty.” He sketched her a bow, then took her hand and placed a gentle, if overlong, kiss to her knuckles, his eyes twinkling wickedly. “I do hope I have not kept you waiting.” 

She gave him a flat look. So, it was to be like that. Well, she had dealt with him in this sort of mood before; she could do it again.

“Good of you to actually show up,” she muttered as he straightened. He sent her a slight, impish grin before turning on his heel and beginning a meander around the room.

He was certainly dressed for the occasion, she thought; wearing leather of such deep red hues that they appeared nearly black, and from an animal whose hide she did not recognize. The collar of his vest brushed his jaw, with a blood-red cravat tied in a froth below his chin. He appeared sleek and lethal; she could see the nobles try hard to remain composed as he moved behind each of them, peering at them with disdain.

“So, my lords,” he sneered at the collective, “I am summoned, and I arrive.” His eyes scanned them all once more, each man growing pale as they caught the sorcerer’s brief attention.

Belle fought back a sigh of irritation. She was well-aware of his contempt for the pampered, stuffy lot around them but had hoped he would discard the theatrics in place of taking the negotiation seriously. She cleared her throat, feeling the weight of their combined relief as she took control once more.

“Councilmembers,” she said, her voice clear and strong, “we are now at full assemblage; therefore, I call this meeting to order.”

* * *

Three hours passed with almost no progress. Every word was picked over, every clause was debated, and Rumplestiltskin clearly delighted in the discomfiture his presence caused.

Belle was ready to tear her hair out, nearly grinding her teeth as the nobles fell into yet another argument with each other, Rumplestiltskin egging them on. Enough was enough.

“Absolutely _not_ , Errald. I refuse to allow this _thing_ to—”

“ _Enough_.” Belle shoved herself to standing, her edict ringing around the room. The nobles’ eyes snapped to her, their voices halting. She looked around at each of them, using the ensuing silence to rein in what she could of her temper.

“I have had enough,” she repeated. “You are bickering like children over a matter as serious as this?” She picked up a nearby sheet of paper, dark slashes of ink crossing the page. “Writing and rewriting and getting absolutely nowhere in three hours of my time.” Crumpling the paper into a ball, she skirted her chair, tossing the ruined sheet into the fire. 

“Out, all of you, save for His Grace and our guest,” she said, turning back to the guilty faces around her. The nobles glanced nervously at each other but did not move, and Belle felt her control beginning to slip. 

“Must I spell it for you? Out!” 

At her second directive, the group hurried to obey, chairs scraping against the floor in their haste to leave. Inadequate bows were given in her direction, but Belle didn’t care; she just wanted the foppish, spoiled men gone.

Finally, the large door shut, leaving the three of them in blessed silence.

“Frederick,” she said after a moment, keeping her voice low and calm, “I need to speak with Rumplestiltskin.”

Bellamy nodded, turning to gather a scattering of papers in front of him. 

“Of course, Majesty. I shall review what little we were able to agree on whilst you speak.”

Belle sighed. “Alone, Frederick.”

He turned back to her slowly, his eyes large.

“Majesty, I could never forgive myself were I to leave you alone with the Dark One.”

_If you only knew,_ Belle thought, resting a hand on his arm.

“Rumplestiltskin is only a danger to those who have earned his ire. Luckily, I am not one of them.”

Bellamy glanced carefully around her, his throat working visibly on a swallow.

“I doubt I can dissuade you, can I?”

Belle shook her head.

“I will be fine.”

He pressed his lips together in a disapproving line but nodded, standing to offer her a short bow, followed by a nasty look over her shoulder. She escorted him to the door, leaning back against the lacquered oak once it was shut, and took a deep breath, closing her eyes as she tried to cleanse herself of frustration. The events of the past several hours circled in her mind in a maelstrom of failure.

“Still think your little _plan_ is so wise now, Majesty?”

Rumplestiltskin’s words snipped the fragile thread of control she’d held over herself and, to her shame, tears flooded her vision and she began to cry. She turned, trying to avoid whatever critique he’d offer should he catch her, but a stuttering sniff escaped nonetheless.

She froze, clapping a hand over her mouth and nose, but to no avail. The scrape of chair legs against stone was the only warning she was given before Rumplestiltskin was at her back.

He was silent for a long moment, and then… 

“Are you crying?”

She squeezed her eyes shut against a fresh wave of tears, humiliation added to their mix.

“No,” she said, but another hiccuping sniff belied her. Undeterred, she continued. “I am a Queen. Queens do _not_ cry.”

“In public, at any rate,” he said, a hint of regret in his voice. “But this is private, Majesty.” He placed a gentle hand high on her back, flicking the fingers of the other at the door, a faint shimmer cascading across the wood before settling. “And no one shall be the wiser of it.”

Permission was all her psyche apparently needed as tears cascaded down her cheeks like a dam had burst. She turned, blindly staring at the blurry bottom ruffle of his cravat. 

“I am doing my best for my people,” she whispered, raising her eyes. “Why won’t the council listen?”

“Idle hands make for idle brains,” Rumplestiltskin said dryly. “They do not deserve your tears.”

Threads of sudden panic began to wind around themselves inside her and her breath quickened. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, shaking her head as her gaze darted to-and-fro without landing, the panic reaching her mind and coiling around it.

“What if this is a harbinger of days to come?” Belle rasped through her tears. “What if they force me to pick from the petitions and have done with it? I won’t do it. I _can’t_.” She shook her head fervently, raising her eyes to Rumplestiltskin’s. “I thought I could make them see, but what if I’m wrong? What if they force abdication? What if—”

Warm, strong arms interrupted her panicked words as they surrounded her, coaxing her against a solid chest. Rumplestiltskin’s calm voice broke through the maelstrom of despair threatening to engulf her.

“Hush, sweet.” His arms tightened, the snug feeling grounding her, allowing her to catch her breath. “Hush. All will be well.”

She burrowed into him, accepting the comfort and fisting her hands in the silk of his shirt as he murmured soothing nonsense to her as one might a frightened child. Typically, the thought would irk her, but the sudden swell and retreat of high emotion left her drained. For the moment, she was more than content to be shushed and petted.

Eventually, her crying tapered, calming to the occasional sniff. She still clutched handfuls of his fine shirt, but he made no remark against her grip and kept her in his secure embrace. As she regained her equilibrium, embarrassment followed in its wake, and she let out a pained sigh.

“Belle?” Rumplestiltskin lifted a hand, brushing the backs of his fingers against her cheek. “What’s the matter?”

She turned her head, hiding her face against him with a groan. He stilled but didn’t push her away.

“I am…mortified,” she said, her voice muffled by the silk. “At everything, but most of all that you barely tolerate me, yet still help me.”

“ _Barely tolerate_ ,” he retorted. “Indeed. Has the Royal Dignity fully recovered?”

She rolled her eyes with a smile, disengaging herself from his arms. “I think so. Thank you.”

“No matter,” he said with an airy wave. He took a hesitant step back from her, his expression holding a subtle question. “Majesty, I—”

“Yes?” 

She waited, watching as he extended a hand only to retract it, rubbing his fingers together as if he’d been stung. He gazed at her for a long moment, his expression softening as his eyes mapped her face. “I’ve…” His mouth opened and closed a few times silently before he snapped it shut, looking away from her as he twirled his fingers at the door. “I’ve removed the silencing ward.”

“Oh,” she muttered. “I thought…” Disappointed, she trailed off with a regal nod. “Thank you for attending today, Rumplestiltskin. I…regret we did not make further progress, but your presence was appreciated.”

He gave a decisive nod in return, formality between them once again restored. A firm step back, and then he was gone, the smoke of his transport swirling him away. Belle groaned, dropping her head into her hands, exasperated at the recalcitrant wizard. His mix of reckless cheek and skittishness was baffling enough, but his moments of tenderness, of solicitous care for her wellbeing, there and gone like a whisper, were the locus of her confusion. Would she ever understand?

Sighing, she moved back to the table, scooping up discarded papers and tossing them into the fire once she determined they were of no use. At least, one thing was clear: an audience of nobles brought out the worst of his impishness. Perhaps it would be better if she and Rumplestiltskin were to negotiate the contract privately instead.

An unbidden image of her straddling his lap rose in her mind, nothing but her overlarge shift covering her, folds of it bunched tightly in his hands as she dictated terms to his pleasure-scowled face, her body writhing against his. She hissed a breath at the shock of sensation the lurid thought sent through her. Her cheeks blazed, and she shoved the thought to the back of her mind. Where on earth had that come from?

A sudden knock at the door startled her, her head snapping up in confusion. No other scheduled meetings were to take place in her private office that day, she was certain of it, and yet someone appeared at her door, requesting an audience. Belle sighed; she was weary, her body longing for rest and her mind rejecting the thought of yet another meeting that day, but she pushed the feelings to the side and took a deep breath to settle herself. Whoever was there, it would do her no favors to be seen in emotional shambles.

“Enter,” she called, moving to sit at her large desk, situated between two tall windows with a thick, soft rug underneath for warmth. She had reached for a stack of clemency petitions when the door opened to admit a guard. After bowing respectfully, he announced her visitor.

“Father Munderic, Your Majesty.”

Around the guard came a man with a slight stoop to his shoulders, the neck-wattle of late middle age jiggling unattractively under his chin as he walked. Bedecked in a robe of rare grey wool so fine it nearly shone silver, he sent Belle what she assumed was his attempt at a benevolent smile. The effect was somewhat dimmed as the paunch of his cheeks stopped it from reaching his eyes.

Belle sighed inwardly. His was not a visit she had the fortitude to manage at the moment, but she seemed to have little choice. She steeled herself as best she could. 

“Our most gracious Majesty,” he said, stopping to offer a low bow. Whether sincere or mocking, Belle did not know, but she’d bet gold on the latter.

“Father Munderic,” Belle replied, bringing her gaze back to the petition at the top of the pile and frowning. A single act of bread thievery did not warrant a year’s imprisonment. Marking her recommendation—that the young man be apprenticed to the baker to learn a fruitful trade and the true value of what he stole—she signed the pardon with a flourish before setting it aside and giving her attention back to the priest. “To what do I owe this unscheduled visit?”

Taking an unoffered seat in one of the chairs opposite her desk, Father Munderic smoothed a few errant wrinkles in his robe before speaking. Several fat gold rings glittered on his fingers, each one likely worth enough to feed a fair number of her people for a year.

Finally, he raised his eyes to hers. “Some troubling news came to my attention, Your Majesty, and I wished to see if it was true or just nonsense spread by an Unbeliever.” 

Belle regarded him with polite disinterest as he spoke. She was no fan of The Faithful, as they called themselves, nor were her father or grandfather before her. A history of violence followed the members of that particular belief system and she would brook no part of it. Her people were free to worship or not as they pleased, but her kingdom was officially unaffiliated with any religious sect. 

She would see that it remained so.

“And what news is this? I recall when last you sought an audience with the Crown, it was to petition King Maurice for a holy festival in the city apex.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “And you most conveniently left out the part where _Unbelievers_ , as you call them, would be barred from attending, thus shutting down an entire center of industry for the Eight Corners for an entire market day.” Leaning back in her chair, she tilted her head. “Is this visit another of your games?”

“Your Majesty,” he said with a small smile, “I humble myself before you and my Heavenly Lord that this errand is of true and utmost importance.”

“Really.”

“Oh, yes.” His nod sent the wattle to jiggling once more. Belle wondered what Rumplestiltskin would have to say were he there to see it. The idea nearly made her smile but she managed to quell the desire, tucking the thought away for later. 

“Then say what you must. I have little time to dawdle.” Crossing her arms, she raised an expectant eyebrow. A flicker of annoyance crossed his face.

“Then I shall endeavor to be brief.” Father Munderic cleared his throat. “Your Majesty has been seen in the company of the Dark One as of late.” Raising his chin, he sent Belle a look tinged with disgust. “This obviously troubles the Council of the Faithful, and as the highest representative of the church, it is my right to direct you away from such blasphemy—”

“I beg your pardon?” Belle interrupted, glaring back at him. “You presume to have rights over this monarchy?”

The priest drew back, blinking in surprise.

“Your Majesty, in the absence of paternal guidance, it is the solemn duty of the Church to lead you down a path of righteousness. Cavorting freely with evil imperils your soul. You must—”

“That is enough!” She interrupted, scowling at him full-bore. “You dare to presume _in loco parentis_ over a coronated ruler?” She pointed to the door. “The Crown denies your petition. Leave, now, and do not return unless summoned.”

In the one correct choice he had made since his inopportune arrival, Father Munderic stood, bowed, and quit the room in all haste. 

The moment the door closed behind him, Belle shoved away from her desk, taking ground eating strides across the stone floor in front of the hearth to burn off some of her anger. However, the more she walked, the more frustrated she grew until a scream built in her throat and threatened explosion. Rather than shriek like a madwoman for all nearby to hear, she funneled her ire in a different direction.

“Rumplestiltskin!”

He appeared in his customary swirl of deep purple smoke, attired the same as when he had left. She expected a quip the moment he saw her, but instead, he was still, with only his gaze moving, raking her from head to foot and back. A wary sort of awe crossed his unique face, and the fingers of his raised hand fluttered in the air.

“Your Majesty,” he breathed. “What put you in such a state?”

“A priest,” she spat. He scoffed, his mouth twisting.

“Yes, they tend to have that effect, don’t they?” He took a step closer. “Would you like my help in eliminating the infestation?”

She shook her head. “Take me somewhere. Please.”

“Where would you like to go?”

“Someplace…” she cast her mind about, searching. “Someplace I can breathe, or—or scream all I want, and no one will hear or care.”

He nodded. 

“As you wish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


End file.
